Shadows of Doubt
by Holmes1887
Summary: It has been said that you can know a household by its servants. This applies to Monsieur Madeline as well, the observations of a young maid. Drabble. Maybe I'll make it series, tell me what you think.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** A little Les Miz through the eyes of one the most observant people in the world, a servant. This little beauty popped into my head at one in the morning and wouln't leave me until I wrote it out. Hope you enjoy, and for the love of _____ review would 'ya?!

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**Shadows of Doubt**

"Will that be all Monsieur le Mayor?" The maid fidgeted slightly with her apron. Madeline looked up distracted from the piles of paper on his desk, obviously engrossed in whatever activity he was pursuing.

"Yes, that will be all for now; oh and if you would tell Sister Simplice to keep an eye on Mademoiselle Fantine while I am at the factory." His dark head once again bent over the desk, knowing she would leave as quietly as she came.

"Yes Sir." She bobbed a curtsy and closed the door sighing. What an enigma that man was; tirelessly working on behalf of those who could not help themselves, but with no close friends. He was the patron saint of the working man, but outsider to all men. She quirked her eyebrows at her own ridiculous meditations, what did she care if he was a saintly hermit? It made her job easier, usually. She turned at the hallway and headed toward the kitchens, meanwhile thinking of the groceries needed for the coming week.

She needed to go to the marked but didn't relish the idea of braving the outside world or its inhabitants. It would mean playing nice with the town matrons, something she abhorred, not to mention having to haggle over the price of the roast meat with the butcher. He took advantage of her age and the fact that the smell, not the sight of blood made her queasy. But at least she could wander into the café and have a quiet moment to herself.

She frowned at this; quiet moments were getting rarer these days. It seems she was designated not only as a maid and nurse, but as a companion to the aging sister as well. The sister was nice enough, but she couldn't find much she could talk to the stern woman about that didn't relate to the Church, work of the house, or the miserable young woman in their care. Such a wretched creature she was, slowly turning to dust before their very eyes and always about her daughter! Her neediness seemed like a repugnant stench to her. She didn't know what it was, but she couldn't stay more than a few minutes in her presence. She was such a victim. A stab of guilt accompanied this thought, it's not like the poor woman asked for any of this to happen to her, yet. . . .

No! She would not pursue this ungracious line of thought. Was it not her duty and honor to tend to the sick as the Lord commanded? Were they not all wretched creatures in His sight? But what was it that disgusted her so? She scrubbed her hands raw to get rid of the soot and grime of the day, _or doing penance for her traitorous thoughts _whispered a small voice. The young maid shivered. She stared at her red hands and gave another deep sigh, a swell of pity sweeping through her. Maybe it was crueler to keep the wretch alive, clinging to false hope of a long life filled with her daughter's laughter. What a loathsome lie. Why did the Master tell it to her? They all knew she wouldn't last the winter, why? She set her jaw and firmly set these thoughts aside as she put on her shawl. These were thoughts for the dark of night not when there was work to be done, with that she grabbed her basket and headed to the Square the shadows of doubt clinging to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **So this is the second instalment of the Les Miz bit "Shadows of Doubt". I don't own Les Miserables, that would be the late and great Victor Hugo. (obviously) Anyway here is the continuing saga of the un-named maid. I'm not super pleased with it and may revise, but I need to update sooooooo. . . .reviews are mana.

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Shadows of Doubt-**Contemptuous Conjecture**

The snow was falling again, of course what does one expect? It is the only thing it knows how to do, fall that is. Great silent flakes like pieces of angel's wings falling on to the disgruntled looking earth. A figure at the great kitchen window overlooking the now gray courtyard was frowning. She was contemplating the needed run to the apothecaries in this bone numbing cold. A small fire was still cracking away in the too big hearth, remnants of the flame used to prepare dinner. The cavernous kitchen was cheerily lit despite one of its occupant's sour moods. Another body was busily wrapping up the leftovers into various bundles, probably for the poor, while humming a favorite hymn. Usually the former would have joined but lacked the enthusiasm as well as the energy after the full day of nursing.

The humming continued; the singer in question was a portly mother hen like woman, all curves and mothering instinct. Madame Buford had been in the employ of the Mayor since before Monsieur Madeline had been a public servant for the city. She harbored a great deal of motherly affection for the quiet awkward man; and a lasting suspicion for the young maid. Not that she ever did anything overtly odd or vicious, but she wasn't satisfied with the life the country had to offer; which in its self warranted suspicion in Madame Buford's eyes.

Madame had never lived outside of Mont-sur-Meir, and who would ever want to in her opinion. What did the world offer that was so much better than the salty shores of her childhood home? Only sin and temptation awaited you the world outside; riots in Paris and the poverty and death of the world. The matron glanced over to the young woman. _What was she waiting for? The snow will only get worse and these leftovers had to be delivered, not to mention Mademoiselles Fantine's medicine had to be picked up. _

The maid feels eyes on her and turns to the point of inquiry. Madame turned away first, the maid's boldness embarrassing her.

"You best start now before the snow begins to pile on." The maid's head bobbed in acquiesce, but the battle had already been won. A gust of frozen air indicated her departure into the chilled twilight. Madame let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Yes it has been a while but I decided why not and added another slice to the pie. So finally Javert makes an appearance. Not to worry he will make another soon. All recognizable characters belong to Victor Hugo.

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Shadows of Doubt-**Obsidian Nightmares**

Shrieking. Someone was actually shrieking. 'Heaven preserve them, now what?' Thought the young woman irritably. The maid groaned in the foreboding dark of midnight.

Another scream. Rubbing her tired eyes she flung her feet out of the warm confines of her quilt, preferring to get the initial shock of cold over with rather than have a prolonged acquaintance with it. She heard muffled sobbing followed by the shuffling of aging feet of Sister Simplace going to her duty. The maid felt a bit less charitable.

Roughly throwing on a shawl while muttering curses about hysterical women she sidestepped to the door; not bothering to light a candle. The errand wasn't worth it. A quick stumble down the steps later (maybe she should have lit that candle) and she irritably pushed further the open the equally irritable door which let an audible groan. Sister Simplice glanced up from her murmuring patient on the bed. The maid met her eyes. The old sister gave a small gasp, thinking she saw something malevolent. The maid sighed and stepped into the dying light of the hearth.

"Don't be alarmed Sister it is just me." She forced herself to speak with even tones though she wished she too could exude the same screams given earlier in such abandon. Simplice relaxed if only slightly. She was debating whether or not having this changeling woman here was better or worse than the devil she imagined. The worst of it was she couldn't decide. The maid glanced at the ashen woman now gibbering on the bedding. Sweat poured in a slick torrent down her hollowed temples, down yellowing cheeks to drip in soft plops on the once pristine nightgown. Not quite the picture of health or sanity.

"It is alright my child. Hush now" crooned the old woman. Knotted hands pushed damp hair away from the feverish eyes. "Hush, that's a good girl." But the disturbed woman paid her no mind. Instead she issued another shrill shriek and buried her head in her pillows and sobbed. Great heaving breaths made her frail body convulse. The sleep deprived audience of this wasn't sure how much more of it she could take. Closing her eyes the servant took a deep breath she resisted the urge to smother the sniveling creature. Simplice was absently stroking the creature's hair droning soothing nothings. The sound of a quick snap jolted the Sister out of her ministrations. A candle was lit then another and another. The maid determined if she was going to have to stay up at this God forsaken hour she might as well see what she was doing.

"Right then" she said curtly cutting off the latest sob from the cowering woman. Then with dexterity inhuman at this hour she brought the last candle to flickering life, illuminating the morose patient, and abruptly turned to the light stunned pair. Forcing herself to relax her stormy features she addressed the Sister.

"Sister Simplice if you would be so kind as to make a cup of chamomile tea for Mademoiselle Fantine" The addressed looked as if she would protest. A gentle but stern voice interrupted the inconsequential reply.

"I am certain mademoiselle would appreciate it and the chamomile should help her rest; not to mention if I may dear Sister you look a bit haggard yourself. Perhaps a cup would do some good as well?" It was hardly a suggestion. Simplice weighed her options and thought it best to indulge this odd insubordination especially with Monsieur Madeline absent. Her submission marked her eyes before her lips and the young woman thanked God she didn't have to further battle the old purist.

"Why I think you are right my girl." She patted Fantine's hand and without giving the maid another look she left. Fantine looked as if she would give another bone shattering wail. A long calloused finger on her lips silenced her.

"Now we will have none of that mademoiselle if you please" enunciated a rather annoyed tone.

The faint pre dawn of another day crept around a sullen figure sitting on the old church wall. An angry 'ping' echoed around the misty churchyard as small stones made a rather vicious attack on the glass bottles hanging raggedly from an ancient and gnarled tree one usually finds lurking in cemeteries.

The figure venting its frustration is none other than our maid. Of course one would hardly recognize her at the moment. Gone was the smart white apron and the dark sensible dress in its stead was a worn gray greatcoat and dark breeches which had seen more than its share of a hard day's work. Dark hair is loosely braided, coming undone. It's careless dance in the misty breeze at odds with the vexed face it frames.

'Why? Why? It made no sense. The months of work, wasted. But why am I so surprised?' She muses. 'The dying rarely see reason, but Fantine's mind is slipping faster and faster everyday it seems. Why were they trying to resurrect a corpse? Why not let the wretched creature make its peace and depart? Did Monsieur Madeline feel responsible? More than likely. But surely it was worse to prolong her suffering? It seemed like such ironic cruelty to let her live. Cruelty masquerading as charity. But again. . .' She flung another stone. Another 'ping' responded. Another missile is found.

"Why?" she murmurs.

"Why indeed?" answers a dark voice. Her throat constricts in an instant, she drops the stone and grips the ancient wall under her.

"Who is there?" Only silence greets her inquiry, then footsteps. A curiously light step she notes absently.

She peers into the semi darkness.

"Show yourself" she barks. A tremor slides through her confident tone. Suddenly a shape materializes by her side, a flash of raven eyes and long canines. Just as quickly a forgotten memory whispers in her ear: werewolf. The world slows and all she can hear is her own heartbeat. By the instinct of self preservation her right hand curls around a loose rock in the crumbling wall and raises it. A grip of iron encloses around the wrist of said hand and a voice of silken ice caresses her ear.

"Mademoiselle if you please I would rather not have my head bashed in." She immediately lets go of the makeshift weapon. Its decent marked by a decided 'thunk' unto holy ground. The only coherent thought running through her mind consisted of two parts. First: It had called her mademoiselle. Second: Werewolves weren't exactly noted for their manners in addressing their victims. Then the ebony eyes came into focus. She had seen them before. Black eyes encased in a thin and dusky countenance. Black coat framing a long frame. Black gloves covering large hands. . . . .

"Inspector!" she gasped. Then proceeded to blush scarlet. Standing there as austere as winter is cruel was none other than Inspector Javert of Montreuil–sur-mer. Time was once again suspended as the man in black lowers his hand still enclosed around hers. A rather odd moment in both their lives to say the least.

"Quite so mademoiselle."


End file.
